Kaleidoscope
by ArtisticRainey
Summary: Another round of prompt fics/flashfiction, this time from a different list/different requests. A variety of characters, themes, genres and ships. Some chapters labelled with individual warnings. Some are TOS, some are TAG, and some are Butterflies-verse.
1. Chapter 1

**1\. Alan + Gordon - Pizza, adore, wonder**

It was sensational. It was _epic_. And it was something that had never been done before.

"Are you sure this will work?" Alan asked, a hair's breadth away from wringing his hands together.

"Of course it'll work," Gordon replied, calling up his older brother's holocall symbol. The little orange triangle pulsed like a heartbeat. "Johnny won't be able to resist. If he does, it'll be the eighth wonder of the world!"

Alan flopped down onto the couch, mumbling something about not using the nickname or else the whole plan would be derailed before it even got started.

After a moment, John's hologram appeared.

"Gordon," he said, all business and no pleasure as usual. "How can I help?"

"Johnny," Gordon said, ignoring Alan's wince. "Do I ever have a mission for you."

"A mission?" John asked, one eyebrow quirking. "What on Earth do you mean?"

Gordon clasped his hands behind his back and gave his older brother his most adoring smile.

"Well, you know how you're the best big brother in the world, _and_ you're really good with the space elevator? I have a request…"

Two hours later, the plan was complete. For, as Gordon had predicted, John could not resist.

The three brothers sat in a conspiratorial triangle, cross-legged on the floor and inhaling the beautiful scene as Gordon opened the cardboard box.

Inside, there was a pizza – double pepperoni with extra cheese, picked up by the space elevator and hand delivered by John himself.

Each brother plucked up a piece, long strings of cheese stretching as they did.

"Bon appetite!" Gordon said.

John didn't reply – but there was the tiniest of smiles on his face. Gordon winked at Alan, then attended to the pizza heaven before him. _Epic plan_ , he thought. _Epic_.


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. John – Conditional**

There are many conditions that are placed upon a person living in space. The first one, of course, is _don't open any windows_. That is obvious.

Beyond that, though, there are conditions for everything. What you eat, what you drink, how and where you sleep. Bathroom routines, repair schedules, supply runs… It goes on and on. The conditional nature of space-dwelling is part of the reason that John does it and Alan does not. The youngest brother is more intelligent than any of the others had been at seventeen. He runs the gamut from genius to idiot – because intelligent as he might be, he is not _sensible_. This is no criticism. What seventeen year old is sensible? Apart from John at that age, that is.

Alan is not sensible. Alan goes surfing in space _for fun_. The only condition for him surviving a life in space is to _not live in space_. Visiting is okay. Living is not. These are facts.

John lives on Five because none of the rest of them can. One of the conditions for Scott's life is knife-edge adrenaline. Space is not the place for adrenaline junkies. A major condition for Virgil is that he needs music and painting to be happy. There isn't much space for a baby grand on Five, and tubes of paint or chalk dust would cause havoc. John shudders at the thought, then moves on. Gordon, water baby that he is, needs the ocean to survive. He requires at least two hours of submersion every day or else he starts twitching and grumbling. Space does not meet his conditions.

For John? Space _is_ his condition. He enjoys the solitude. He enjoys the distance. He enjoys the routine.

Rules are conditional to space survival. John Tracy is fine with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. John + EOS – Wonder**

"John Tracy, what does it mean to be human?" EOS's voice is light and airy, as if she's simply asking the time. "It is something I have wondered about for some time."

The question catches John off-guard. He stops, mid-stride, and turns to face the ring of white lights just above his head.

"That's…" He runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn't know what words he needs. "That's…a big question."

"I understand," she says, her LEDs glinting and glimmering. "It is something that I am not sure I can comprehend." There's a pause. The ring of lights turns yellow. "But…I want to comprehend."

John lifts a leg, taps his toes on the rounded glass floor beneath him and folds his arms. He swallows, licks his lips. He leans against the bulkhead.

"Well…" He starts. Then he stops, simply because he's not sure what the answer is and even if he was, he can't find the words.

"You do not need to answer," EOS says. She turns her camera away. "It is not important."

John stands up straight again and crosses the floor so he's looking directly into her lens again.

"No, EOS," he says. "It is important. It's very important. It's just that… I'm not quite sure _how_ to answer that question." He gives a tiny chuckle. "I'm probably not the best person to answer."

EOS's lights turn white again. Her lens flexes. She's curious.

"Why not?" she asks. "You are human."

John gives that same self-depreciating laugh again and shrugs.

"I guess," he says. "But I don't always see things the way everyone else does. Scott or Gordon would be the best ones to ask. Maybe Grandma…"

"John Tracy."

His head snaps up as EOS's LEDs turn red for the briefest of moments. Then they're back to white again.

"I do not care what it means to be Scott Tracy or Gordon Tracy or Grandma Tracy," she says. "I want to know what it is like to be _John Tracy_." There's a pause. Then she continues. "If I was to be a human, I would want to be like you."

He's not quite sure how to respond to that, so he doesn't for a moment. Not until he can formulate his thoughts – because it's one of those days where nothing makes much sense and he can't get all his words in the right place.

"That's… That's really nice, EOS," he says.

He hopes it doesn't sound sarcastic or twee, because that's not the way it's meant. What he means is that it's the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to him. Because for most of his life, people have been trying to get him to be _different_ , to fall in step with everyone else, to develop coping mechanisms to blend in with _regular people_. Not that he likes that word any more than _normal_. Neither term is appropriate, nor acceptable as far as he's concerned. But there's a precondition. An assumption. That they are normal and he is not. There is little that he can do about that.

"Being John Tracy means…" He pauses, taking in a deep breath, then letting it out again. "Being John Tracy means a lot of things. It means caring and worrying sometimes. It means doing a hundred things at once. It means filling your day with endless, thankless tasks because… Well, because if you don't do them, they won't get done. And if they won't get done, something bad might happen…"

It sounds pathetic. It's not exactly what he _means_. But words are failing him and there's nothing he can do.

"Being John Tracy sounds difficult," EOS says.

She's the only one who's ever acknowledged that as a fact. John closes his eyes and nods.

"It can be," he says. Then he opens his eyes. He looks at her ring of white. "But it's been a lot easier since you've been with me, EOS."

Her LEDs flash green at that.

"I am glad," she says.

"So am I, EOS," John replies, reaching out to lay a finger on the rim of her camera. "So am I."


	4. Chapter 4

**4\. Scott + Virgil – Shirt**

"Gordon, where's my shirt?"

Virgil's voice echoes into the empty locker room. There is no response.

Then there is a giggle – light and muffled, hidden under something. Virgil's dark brows lower.

"Gordon…"

The rumble of his voice is dangerous but the interloper takes no heed. There's another giggle, a scuffle, and then Gordon's head pops out from behind one of the tall lockers. He grins from ear to ear, holding aloft the red and black shirt that Virgil prises so much.

"Catch me if you can!"

And at that, Gordon is gone, flannel flapping in his wake. Virgil shakes his head and sighs. He reaches up to his ear and presses.

"Scott? I need a favour…"

 **~oOo~**

He can hear the heavy slaps of his brother's bare feet on the floor. Scott smiles, pressing his back to the wall. Gordon will round the corner within seconds – and then he will strike.

Closer, closer… Then:

"Ah-ha!"

Scott leaps out, taking the full-force of Gordon against his chest. They go down in a tumble of dark and blond heads, elbows and knees akimbo. And as Gordon shrieks, Scott cackles with delight. He clamps his fist around the red and black shirt.

"I've got it!" he yells.

"No!"

Gordon, not ready to give up, keeps a strong grip on the flannel. They tussle. They _pull_.

And then there is a colossal _rip_. Then there is silence.

The brothers stare at each other, then down at the material that was once a shirt and now is two. Then they look at one another again.

"Not guilty!"

Their chorus sounds through the villa corridors. Scott and Gordon leap backwards, scuttling away from the guilty mess on the floor.

In the distance, they can hear booted footsteps coming towards them.

"What's wrong, guys?"

When Virgil arrives at the scene of the crime, the perps have long gone. But even on the other side of the island, they would still be able to hear the feral cry.

" _I'LL KILL YOU BOTH_!"


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. Gordon/Matthew – Soothe. Warning: Butterflies-verse. M/M**

There's something about it that can soothe any ill. It solves every problem. It heals every wound.

Gordon doesn't usually have a preference. He'll do whatever – man, woman, top, bottom. He's flexible – in more ways than one. He's all lean muscle and long lines. He's red hair, matted with sweat and flopping across his forehead.

He's found, though, that in this instance, he does have a preference. Because there's nothing more soothing than Matt. There's nothing more exquisite than the satisfaction of being taken by the Irishman. He buries his face into the pillow and _screams_ – and it never gets old.

There's pleasure in the pain. There's something soothing in the rhythm.

And there's comfort in the way they curl up together afterwards, Gordon hooked in the crook of Matthew's arm. Blankets on or blankets off, feet sticking out and the first light of dawn creeping through the cracks in the blinds.

There's something about it that can soothe any ill.

It's perfection.


	6. Chapter 6

**6\. Gordon, Alan + Kayo – Interrupt**

Gordon was about to knock the door. He was about to go in and see if either his little bro or badass pseudo-sister wanted to hang out at the pool. but then:

"Just a little more…"

"Alan, stop, it's not going to fit."

"Please, Kayo, just let me try!"

"Alan, oww! That hurts!"

The exchange was muffled by the door. There were grunts. There were _whines_. So instead of knocking, Gordon backed away. _Far_ away. He didn't want to… _interrupt_ …

 **~oOo~**

Brow shining with sweat, Alan flopped backwards onto the floor, breathing heavily. Kayo fell down beside him. They stared up at the ceiling.

"I told you it wouldn't fit," Kayo said. "It's too big."

Alan glanced across at the dresser they had been trying to fit into an alcove. It jutted half-in and half-out of the narrow space.

"Ugh, it's so annoying," he said, heaving himself into a sitting position. Then he looked at the door. "Did you hear something at some point? Like, a noise at the door?"

"Not that I can recall," Kayo said.

When they went to dinner later, neither could fathom why Gordon couldn't meet their eyes…


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. Virgil + Alan – Torchbearer**

 _Torchbearer, noun: One who imparts knowledge, truth or inspiration to others._

Sometimes it's easy to forget that Alan is still a teenager. He doesn't act like a teen – and that's the problem. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He takes on the mantle of the adult the majority of the time – bouts of sleep-talking and silliness aside.

So when Virgil finds him with his feet dangling in the pool and his eyes downcast, he sits beside him. He doesn't ask questions. He waits as the sun starts to dip below the horizon.

Eventually, when Alan speaks, his is the voice of a child again.

"I didn't mean for it to happen."

His voice is tiny. His throat is clogged with despair. Virgil slides an arm around his littlest brother's bony shoulders.

"You aren't to blame," he says. "Sometimes things don't go right, no matter how hard you try. Even International Rescue isn't infallible."

When Alan looks up, the sunset burns amber in his bright eyes. Virgil swallows.

"But we should be," he says. "We should never fail."

In the youngest's words, the oldest's voice echoes. How many times has Virgil had this same conversation with Scott? Too many.

"In an ideal world," Virgil says, "we wouldn't. In an ideal world, we wouldn't even be _needed_." He gives a soft laugh, more like a self-depreciating snort. "But this isn't an ideal world. And things do go wrong. We just couldn't get there in time, Alan. We can't be there right at the moment disaster strikes."

Alan drops his chin and shakes his head.

"I wish we could be," he mutters.

Virgil pulls his brother close again and nods.

"I know," he says. "But one failure doesn't make the other hundred successes not count anymore. You have to look at the big picture." He laughs again. This time the sound is soft, comforting. "It's the only thing that gets me through the tough days."

They stay in the dip of the sunlight for a while, watching as the stars begin to come out. Virgil doesn't want to have these conversations. He doesn't want to have to bear the torch of bad news. He doesn't want to have to see them suffer.

But he will never turn away. Someone has to.


	8. Chapter 8

**8\. Jolijah + Mathew/Gordon – Content. Warning: Butterflies-verse. M/M**

Content means different things to different people. Content to Gordon Tracy means sitting on the deck of a yacht, sipping a cocktail and maybe doing a little fishing. Even better if his own… _catch_ is by his side. When Matthew's around, there's no peace and quiet – but that doesn't mean Gordon can't be content. Who wants gently lapping waves and the solitude of the ocean when you can have cannonballs into the water of – heaven forbid – ocean _skinny dipping_.

To John Tracy, content means something else entirely. Content means taking a trip to New York with his best guy and their daughter, taking a stroll around Central Park, watching Lyra scream in delight as she hops on the carousel _again_. Content means grabbing and ice cream or a hot dog. It means peering closely at manhole covers and shouting down storm drains, just in case Leonardo or Donatello might be close by.

Content means different things to different people. Whether on a boat or a plane, in the ocean or on a carousel. The key to this all? It doesn't matter, as long as it makes you _happy_.


	9. Chapter 9

**9\. Scott + John – Solo**

He's told him no so many times the word is losing meaning. But sometimes Scott just doesn't listen. And one day, John knows, it's going to kill him.

"Scott, _abort_."

But the eldest doesn't listen. He's pushing himself, forcing himself to be Mom and Dad and the Virgin Mary and Captain America all at the same time, because that's what Scott does. It's all he can do – anymore, at least.

It wasn't always like this. As John watches the little Thunderbird One icon hurtle towards the erupting volcano, he remembers.

He remembers when Scott used to ask him for help – homework, flight simulations, training, brother-wrangling… All of these things and more, they did together. They were a team, two sides of a lucky coin.

But now, Scott's not listening. He doesn't listen anymore. He's off on a solo mission to hell – and John's afraid he won't come back.

Worse still, he's afraid he doesn't _want_ to come back.

As he watches the little icon plunge down into the volcano, all John can do is hold his breath and _pray_.


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. Virgil + headboard. Warning: M for non-explicit sexual content.**

The top of his head is hitting the headboard, a rhythmic tattoo. But he can't stop. He won't stop. Because he needs this. He needs to forget the terror and the trauma and the thousand hurts that pierce his skin like knives.

He knows she needs it too. He knows she's suffered. He feels her _trauma_. And this oneness, this sense of being together, wrapped in each other's arms and drowning in each other's sweat – there's something life preserving about it.

It's not just the feeling. It's not just the sensation. It's the reality that for these few moments, for this time, they're just together – and in the dark abyss of night, that's all that really matters.


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. John + Alan – Interrupt**

It's usually John who interrupts Alan – mid-sleep, mid-game, mid- _whatever_. John pops up in every corner no matter the situation.

So it's a strange feeling when the tables are turned and Alan is the one interrupting _John_.

And it's an even stranger sensation when Alan realises what his brother is doing. He's _crying_.

"John?"

His voice is pitifully thin but Alan doesn't care. It's the shock, really. The shock of seeing his usually so stoic and steady brother in a mess of puffy eyes and a red nose.

John jolts around and leaps to his feet. He had been on the floor of his bedroom, grabbing fistfuls of carpet as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored in the world.

"Alan, I -"

John cuts himself off with a choked and supressed sob. And Alan watches as the face of his brother is encased in concrete, frozen in an attempt to fool him that none of this really matters. But it does matter. If anyone knows how much it matters, it's Alan.

He doesn't say anything. He pads across the room in silence, then slides his arms around his brother's torso. Through John's thin shirt, Alan can count every rib. He can almost feel the fibres and sinews of muscle shifting beneath his fingertips. A clear half-foot shorter than his brother – especially since John is freshly out of orbit and currently taller than even _Scott_ – Alan lays his head on John's concave ribcage and tightens his grip.

And he says nothing. He waits.

And then John's bony arms encircle him and his red head comes down to rest atop Alan's soft blond hair.

And they stay like that for as long as it takes. Because Alan knows.


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. John and Alan, aboard Thunderbird 5 during down time.**

"Main systems are now in sleep mode."

Everything's dark. Only a thin haze of blue hangs in the gravity ring. Though that's a misnomer, now, since it's not spinning. There is no artificial gravity created by centrifugal force.

Alan floats towards his brother, who stares through his helmet, out the reinforced glass floor, down at the blue and green globe below.

"It's only for a little while, bro," Alan says. "Just while Brains does whatever it is he's doing, y'know?"

John turns and tries to smile. His left eye looks blue and his right eye looks green. They've always shifted, always picked up on whatever colour is closest to them. Alan gives his brother his widest grin. Those eyes are just one of the thousands of things Alan envies about John.

There are things not to envy, too. And John's dependence on Five is one of those things.

"I know, Alan," John replies.

His floating seems lethargic, lacking the zero-g vitality Alan is so used to. John doesn't just need Five. He _is_ Five. Alan suppresses a shudder. _I can't imagine being_ that _attached to Three_ … Of course, Thunderbird Three is his best girl, but he still has his objectivity. Three is important, but family is more so.

Sometimes he wonders if John's lost touch with that reality.

So now that Five's powered down, so has John. Alan swims forward in the nothingness that separates them, his heart so pure and filled with hope.

He latches onto John's shoulders, planting his booted feet on his brother's shins. Their visors bump, and John's green and blue and blue and green eyes blink, opening again wider than should be possible.

"Alan?"

The youngest Tracy sends them into a spin, head over heels, round and round. He doesn't say anything, but starts to laugh.

John's hands linger at his sides, fingers stiff, unknowing. Alan keeps laughing.

Then, the sound comes through his helmet speakers. The sound he wanted.

John starts to laugh.

It's a quiet chuckle at first, but soon enough his hands are on Alan's shoulders and they're spinning anew, faster this time, and John's in full-blown giggle mode—something Alan hasn't heard in far too long.

Together they spin, through the darkness and the dim blue haze.

The gravity ring might have stopped, but their hearts haven't.

Their eyes meet, and there's something sparkling in the depths of the green and the blue, the blue and the green.

Five might be important, but Alan sure as hell isn't going to let John forget _which_ five is most important of all.


	13. Chapter 13

**13\. Virgil attempts to teach Alan the finer points of baking**

There's something about the way Alan looks at him that makes everything worth it. And that says a lot, because there is _a lot of mess_.

Virgil casts his eyes across the decimated kitchen counters, seeing the fallen soldiers of over-rolled fondant, watching the clouds of icing sugar that still linger in the sunlight…

 _Yeah. A_ lot _of mess._

But it doesn't matter, because Alan is grinning like this is the best day of his life, and all they're doing is making a birthday cake—because you can be darned sure that Virgil isn't going to miss anyone's birthday. He's the unofficial birthday keeper in the family, the one who always makes sure the special days don't get overlooked.

That makes it difficult when it comes to his _own_ birthday—but heck, it all worked out in the end last time, anyway.

"Is this one any better?"

Alan holds a fondant figure in his hand, dark and light blue, with a pink head and a smattering of brown on top.

"It's definitely _better_ ," Virgil says.

He casts another glance at the previous attempts, covered in too much sugar and cracked from being over-rolled.

"Here," he says, reaching for another packet of coloured fondant. "Let's try one together, yeah?"

Virgil's never been a sculptor, but there's something about being an artist that definitely helps with the construction of small edible figures. Alan's engrossed as Virgil sculpts the body, rinses his hands, reaches for the pink, and then the brown and the silver—which is actually grey with edible glitter mixed in, but still—and soon enough, a six-inch-tall sugar Scott has been formed.

"That's amazing, Virg!" Alan says.

Virgil chuckles, the sound resonating with a deep timbre, and grins at his creation.

"It's not bad," he says, modest as always.

"It's great!" Alan says. "Do the rest! Let's face it, I have as much artistic talent as a shoe."

Virgil laughs louder this time, nearly losing the small Scott in the process.

"Oops," he says.

"I promise not to tell," Alan replies with a wink.

It takes a while, but soon enough, there's a little family of sugar figures—the Alan figure created to be the same size as all the rest, were Virgil's strict orders—and one by one, Virgil places them on the round cake.

There they sit: Scott, Virgil, Alan, Gordon, John, Kayo, Brains, even Grandma. All dressed in their uniforms—or their trademark purple jumpsuit, for a certain someone.

Virgil and Alan stand by to survey their work. Slinging an arm around his little brother's shoulders, Virgil grins—even though his eyes are a little wet.

"I think he'd like it."

"Yeah." Alan turns his face upwards, grinning. "Great job, Virg!"

He turns back, and smiles anew.

"Happy Birthday, Dad."


	14. Chapter 14

**14\. Scott is probably too tired to be at this charity gala, but he will honour his commitments (and try not to fall asleep in the punch).**

Of course, no one knows _why_ he's this tired. It's not like he can explain to people, "Oh, yeah, I'm tired because at six o'clock this morning, I was dangling in the mouth of a volcano, trying to rescue a pair of ill-advised explorers."

Unfortunately, he can't say any such thing, and so when he gets an elbow in the side from an overweight and unpleasantly lecherous man with more dollars than brain cells, he has to paste a smile on his face.

"Been acting the playboy all day, hmm?" the man asks, sending out a cloud of whiskey breath.

Scott really wants to punch him in the face, _whoever_ he is. Probably some bloated company CEO. But he can't. _Cool it, Tracy_ , Scott thinks. _Charity, remember? Play nice._

Instead of connecting his knuckles with the man's red nose, he straightens his bow tie and grins.

"Something like that, I guess," he says.

The older man chortles, slaps him on the back in a way that is _not_ _appropriate_ for someone he doesn't even know, and toddles off to attract the attention of a canape-bearing hostess.

Scott's face is frozen in a half-smile.

That's what they all think of him. Scott Tracy, son of Jeff. Young and rich, therefore _obviously_ a flirt and a rogue.

While Scott might well be _both_ of those things, he doesn't act in the usual way for a flirt or a rogue.

He doesn't pick up girls, use them, and dump them.

He _literally_ picks up girls, and guys, and reassures them with his smile and his flirtation, and sets them back on solid ground, back to safety.

He doesn't use his influence, his name, to try and get what he wants.

He uses his brains and his brawn to put himself in situations he never wants to be in, just so that others can be rescued from situations _they_ never wanted to be in, either.

But he can't tell anyone that, and he knows they'll never understand. He's rich, handsome, and has talents up the yin-yang.

He's a catch and he knows it.

But he'd rather catch others.


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. Fic prompts: I'd like to see Gordon & Matt, out drinking, prior to coming out to each other. Hope that's not too specific. Warning: Butterflies-verse. Pre-M/M**

"…and then, and then he said—"

Matthew can barely get through the sentence. Tears of mirth roll down his cheeks, mirroring the condensation that trickles down the side of his beer bottle.

Gordon can't even remember the point of the story. He's too busy drinking in every detail of the other man's face, counting the crinkles that form at the side of his eyes, and memorising the impossibly sharp edges of his chin and jaw, contrasted with the roundness of the tip of his nose…

Judging by the fact he's dissolved into giggles, Matt's story is over. Gordon joins in with the laughter, still not sure what exactly was said. But it doesn't matter, because all that does is the fact that they're here, together sharing a rare night off.

At midnight, they'll have to get a cab back to the airstrip, because their plane home will be waiting. But for now, they're here, sitting at a scuffed table in a dingy bar that smells like many, _many_ bad things.

"Oh, man," Matt says, wiping his eyes, "I'll never forget it."

"I'll bet," Gordon says, still without a clue. But he's always been good at faking it.

He raises his beer bottle for a toast. Matt's mischievous grin spreads as he clinks his drink against Gordon's.

" _Sláinte mhaith_!" he says, before taking a swing.

"Uh," Gordon replies, struggling for a reply. He goes to the default: W.A.S.P. "Keep the people inside the boat, and the water out of the boat."

Matt blinks. There's a pause. And then the rolling thunder of his laughter sounds again.

"Didja get that one in the service, lad?" he asks. "Here's one I picked up: For every wound, a balm. For every sorrow, cheer. For every storm, a calm. And for every thirst, a beer!"

"Now that, I can get on board with!" Gordon says.

They clink their bottles once more, and Gordon can't help but admire the gentle tilt of the other man's lips, and how they glisten when he licks the last few drops of beer from his lips.

 _Stop it, Gordon_ , he thinks, pulling his eyes away. _This won't work. You work together. You_ can't _. And you don't even know if… Ugh._

Thankfully, Matt's three sheets to the wind, and he hasn't picked up on Gordon's strange mood. The mercurial Irishman has leaned back on his chair, and seems to be flirting with the barman clearing the table behind them.

All at once, Gordon does and does not want midnight to come.


	16. Chapter 16

**16\. Gordon calls John for a chat on his way home from a solo mission.**

"Thunderbird Five here," John replies, always so formal and always so _on task_. "How can I help you, Gordon?"

How can Gordon put it? What words are there in the English language for, ' _I'm on my way back from the Polynesian Islands and I'm so bored and I just need some company_ ' that John Tracy, Mr Freaking Perfect McWonderful, won't immediately bat down?

"John, can you explain to me exactly how the moons affect the tides? Because that stuff's been explained to me so many times, and I just… I still don't quite get it!"

This is entirely a lie. Gordon understands perfectly spring tides, and neep tides, perigee and apogee, and all of the magical science that creates the diurnal tides.

However, John quirks an eyebrow and smiles, and starts off into his explanation.

Gordon is both listening and not listening. He doesn't care about the words, but he does care about the sound. The rising and falling intonation. The reassuring drone of an older brother who Gordon knows will _always_ be there for him.


	17. Chapter 17

**17\. John and Virgil and why you should always carry a fresh pair of socks**

The day started off like a boulder to the head, and didn't get much better. Virgil stripped off the top layer of his uniform, wincing as the soaked material folded in unwelcome clumps.

"Ugh. This is so gross."

It was. The water he had plummeted into had a similar scent to a rotten cabbage stuffed inside well-worn running shoes.

"Yeah…"

His companion was in no better shape—and seemed to take the situation as a personal affront. John pulled off his own uniform—not his signature spacesuit, but a set over coveralls similar to Virgil's. Even though it was tailored for his different frame, John still looked like a kid playing press-up. At least, so Virgil thought.

John pulled his face into a look of disdain. Virgil suppressed a snort at the expression as he pulled off his boots, then peeled off his socks. They made an impressive squelch as they hit the poured concrete floor.

"Bet you wish you'd stayed on Five, right?"

"Truly, yes," John replied. Letting it drop in disgust, his uniform slapped onto the ground. "Especially as this has all been for nothing."

With Scott and Alan on a rescue in Three, and Gordon and Kayo on another, when the third call came in, there was no choice. With Virgil unable to handle things alone, John had come down from five, handed comms. to Grandma, and off they had flown.

All for nothing: a situation that resolved itself.

Virgil stepped out of his drenched pants and laid them aside. Then he peeled off his base layer, shivering as the air hit his skin. The ground was cold on the soles of his bare feet.

"Now I know how an onion feels."

The joke fell as flat as his hair—the water had no respect for years of quiff-perfecting—and Virgil shook his head. He sighed. John was right. It had all been for nothing. And now, they were stranded in part of an old drainage system in an unfinished city, waiting for a Cambodian monsoon to pass.

There was nowhere to go. The rains were too heavy, the winds and the terrain too treacherous for remote piloting of Two. Not to mention the strong possibility that any lines dropped from the great craft would never make it to the ground in the storm. Sadly, the brothers had to wait it out—after they'd already been drenched, with no spare clothing in tow.

Never completely unprepared, Virgil opened one of the many pockets of his sash. He withdrew a tiny cube, twisted it until it clicked, and slowly, it turned orange and began to grow—and glow.

Within a few seconds, it had grown into a merry heat-giving cube. Virgil dusted off his hands, as if he'd made a fire from scratch. John was busy lining their boots up by the wide opening they'd come through. Virgil shook his head. Typical.

Well, if John could be typical, so could Virgil. Little big brother mode commenced immediately.

"Take your undershirt off."

John turned and blinked, then plucked at the black garment.

"Oh, right. Core body temperature and all that stuff."

Spreading his own removed clothing by the orange heat cube, Virgil chuckled. He warmed the bottoms of his feet against the cube in turn.

"Good to see you can remember some of the stuff Dad taught us about survival."

"Wet clothing attracts body heat into itself, sapping it from the internal organs," John recited. "I hope you have an emergency blanket in that sash of yours, otherwise we're just going to be embarrassed and cold."

"Pfft, embarrassed. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've seen more naked brothers in my lifetime than I care to admit."

"That's kind of my point."

As they talked, Virgil moved back to his sash and withdrew a tiny package.

"And as a matter of fact, I do have an emergency blanket. Always be prepared. That's what the boy scouts say, right?"

"You were never a scout."

"Details, details…"

Virgil settled on the ground, leaning against the curved concrete wall, swaddled in the blanket. He made sure his feet were securely tucked in. Already, they were uncomfortable in the damp.

John spread his clothing as his brother had done. Then, finished, he stood, barefoot, staring at the cube. He held his arms stiff at his sides, entirely lost in the situation.

"Come on," Virgil said, opening the blanket in welcome.

After a moment's hesitation, John did as he was bid. He settled in the crook of Virgil's arm, leaning into his heat. The two brothers huddled, listening to each other's breathing, and the chorus of rain thundering down outside.

"This wasn't what I expected my day would be like," John said.

"I can't say I imagined this, either," Virgil replied. "It's not like I thought, 'Oh, hey, you know what's be awesome? Falling into disgusting water, getting trapped in a storm, and having to share body heat with my stinky brother.' Yeah… Definitely not what I thought."

"You're equally stinky," John replied. "I just want to point that out. We both fell into the same disgusting water."

Virgil chuckled, the deep rumble of his laughter disappearing into the rainstorm.

"I can't argue with that."

Glancing upwards, eyes mildly crossed, he blew at the damp tendrils of hair that fell over his forehead.

"Had I known this was going to happen, I wouldn't have bothered with gel this morning."

Snorting, John shifted against Virgil's shoulder.

"Heaven forfend your grand quiff succumbs to the rain."

Poking John in the ribs, Virgil tutted.

"Just because some of us have style," he said, "and some of you—I mean, us—don't. Heck, with my hair like this, I look like you."

John nodded slowly. Though Virgil couldn't see his face, he could blueprint in the solemn expression.

"A good look," John said.

"If you say so."

Moments ticked past, the raindrops the tocks of their internal clocks. Darkness ensnared them, the orange cube the only source of light. Still, the rain came down.

Eventually, Virgil sighed.

"The novelty has definitely worn off now."

"Yeah."

"And do you know what one thing I've learned the most from this experience?"

"Mmm?" John replied, half-drowsing in their body heat.

Virgil wiggled his gradually-warming toes under the blanket.

"You can never underestimate the importance of carrying a fresh pair of socks."

John was silent for a moment. Virgil's words filtered through. Then came the laughter.

It started off as a gentle chuckle, but just like the rainstorm, it came harder and heartier. Infectious, soon Virgil couldn't help but join.

The two brothers laughed together, the harmony of their voices echoing into the rain.


	18. Chapter 18

**18\. {For the flashfic thing} Virgil/John telling one of the others (maybe Scott?) off for doing something stupid on a mission.**

"Scott, stop!"

Virgil's voice over the comm. is a whipcrack, and in that moment, Scott's back. Back from the brink of doing something heroic and very stupid.

"Think about what you're doing!"

Though it's still sharp, Virgil's voice is tempered with concern, that patented Virgil little big brother tone that always centres Scott. Always hooks him and reels him back in.

"Scott, please."

And there's nothing Scott can do anymore, because he can't defy that calm logic. Nor the twist of concern.

"Alright, Virgil."

Scott pulls back, pivots One around, and regroups.

Recentres.

Rethinks.


	19. Chapter 19

**19\. Scott doing what he does best and** ** _bothering_** **Virgil?**

"Hey."

"Hey, Scott."

"So… Whatcha doing?"

Virgil sighs, slowly sets his paintbrush aside, makes sure it's in line with all of the others. It's one of those days.

"I'm painting, Scott," he says. "I thought that was kinda clear."

"Whatcha painting?"

Virgil bites back the initial response.

One of the biggest secrets that Virgil has is that sometimes, he wants to snap. He wants to tell people to go away, stop bothering him, leave him alone. But these feelings are fleeting, because that's not who Virgil is. He's not a bully. He's not aggressive. He doesn't even kill bugs that make their way into the villa. He's more of a "catch-'em-and-release-'em" kind of guy, not a squisher.

So Virgil doesn't tell Scott to back off, leave him alone.

Instead, he turns and smiles.

"I was just going to see where the brush takes me."

It's true. He doesn't have a subject. This isn't a fine art kind of deal. Virgil has a lot of stuff rattling around in his head. There are images of rescues, of injured people, near-death experiences… So much, all rolling around like a tumult in his brain. Sometimes, he needs to sit down in front of a blank canvas and just move the brush. He doesn't think too much. It just happens. Whatever 'it' happens to be in the particular moment.

"Can I watch?"

Virgil doesn't want to snap this time. Scott is being annoying, and clingy, but then again, he did pull a dead girl out of a building not ten hours before. So in Virgil's eyes, he's entitled.

"Sure."

Scott settles down, a little to the left, a little lower than Virgil. The latter picks up the brush again and reaches for his palette. There are blobs of colour on there.

"What should I start with?"

Scott chuckles.

"You know what I'll say."

Virgil joins in the laughter.

"Yeah, I do."

He reaches for the blue, and begins.


	20. Chapter 20

**20\. Scott and Gordon and breakfast at 9 PM**

So it's 9PM, and it's breakfast time. Well, breakfast time can be any time when you're in the rescue business.

They haven't even changed. They're still in their uniforms, a little muddied, a little torn. The sashes have been discarded. The tools of their trade have been set aside.

Instead, Scott has eggs in his hands, and he's resisting the urge to juggle them – because he's not all that good at juggling, and he really wants to eat eggs. A lot of them.

It's not exactly a pleasant thing when you're faced with death, but if there's one thing he's learned, it's that death doesn't suppress his appetite. In fact, in some ways, it makes it stronger.

That's one thing he and Gordon share. They're very different, both in looks and personality. Sometimes it feels like they can't possibly have the same parents, because there's seems to be no common ground between them. There's no animosity, of course. But it feels like there's no connection, nothing bringing them together.

Except post-rescue eggs. And in some ways, that's enough.

Gordon grabs the frying pan from one of the low cupboards, melts some vegetable oil, and they wait for a moment. Then Scott cracks the eggs on its edge, and they set to work.

A little salt. A little pepper. Gordon's in charge of the cooking as Scott sets to making an accompaniment. It's just toast, but Scott toast is the best toast.

It doesn't take long until their night-time breakfast is ready. De-sashed and with forks in their hands, they head to the dining table. They tuck in, sharing the silence, unwinding, eating what they want at the time they like.

There's only one thing to say:

"Good eggs."


	21. Chapter 21

**21\. Gordon+pain for flash fic**

Well, Gordon-old-buddy, how the hell do you think you're gonna get out of this one?

Gordon's rational side slides to the front, crossing its arms at the pessimism.

First, we take stock of the situation.

Taking stock commences. Gordon tries to shift against the bare rock behind him, but he can't. It's not just that it's difficult. He can't move.

It all happened so quickly. A flash. An explosion. And then the cacophony of a rock slide from all angles. Gordon's not sure where he is, or what's happening now. All he knows is pain, pain, pain.

But at least he can feel something. If he couldn't, he'd be in much worse shape. Or dead. But hey.

He tries to laugh, because laughter is the best medicine. Right?

Right?

Now he's somewhere, at the bottom of something, with smashed up comms. and a pair of mangled legs. How the hell is he gonna get out of this one?

He laughs again, louder this time. There's an edge of despair, and no amount of endorphin released is going to take the edge off his pain.

It's not just the burning, twisting, aching pain in his legs. It's the subtle knife-point in his heart, just starting to push in.

He failed them. Failed. Them.

That pain is the worst of all.


	22. Chapter 22

**22\. Flash fiction request - since the first episode showed John being a fan of Stingray, I'd love to have him and Gordon having a discussion or argument about the shows portrayal of the world underwater.**

"Oh, come on," Gordon says, waving a hand. "There's nothing realistic about the ocean in this show."

He's pushing all of John's buttons and he knows it. But John knows it too, and the light of an argument comes into his eyes. The dance begins.

John sets aside the ridiculously huge bowl of popcorn - a mixture of both sweet and salty because John is a weirdo - and sits up straight. He tries to school his face into that of an academic, but the grains of salt and the odd bit of popcorn kernel attached to the side of his mouth don't add to the authority.

"Gordon," he starts slowly, leaning forward a little.

Gordon waits. Unconsciously, he mirrors his brother, and the two are about to lock horns on the couch, as Stingray lies paused in the middle of the lounge.

John opens his mouth to speak. Gordon waits.

Then there's a throw cushion in his face before he can react, and John's on top of him, pummelling him with a poor polyester-mix fluffball.

"It! Doesn't! Matter!" John says, each word punctuated by a strike. "It's! Just! For! Fun!"

Gordon can barely catch his breath, he's laughing so hard. The bowl of popcorn bounces up and off the couch and onto the floor, and boy, is Grandma going to be mad.

"Uncle! Uncle!" Gordon cries, trying to shield his face from the blows. "I give!"

John sits back, hair sticking in all directions, face flushed, chest moving up and down faster than it should be.

Gordon does what he can. What he should. As a brother, it's his duty.

He grabs a cushion and launches into a counter-attack.

It's the only response, really.


	23. Chapter 23

**23\. Alan, Grandma and clocks**

Grandmatime is different from regular time. This is something Alan knew from a young age. Life doesn't tick by in regular seconds and minutes with Grandma Tracy. It has its own beat, its own hours and days. It's an entirely different kind of clock that Alan's lived by his whole life.

There's schoolworktime, and choretime, and cleanyourroomtime. There's studytime and serioustime and funnytime. There's movietime and startime and booktime.

There's unexpected poignanttime, reflectiontime. There's takeresponsibilityforyourfailingstime - that's one of the least popular kinds of Grandmatime - and there's pickyourselfupandstartagaintime

There's crytime, sometimes, too. That's one the worst kinds of Alantime.

Grandmatime keeps its own clock, a many-handed face that keeps everyone together, that runs through Scotttime, Virgiltime, Alantime, Gordontime and Johntime, like a Grandmatime meridian.

Sometimes, there are elements of Grandmatime that strike thirteen into all other times.

Like dinnertime.

For Alan, that's gonetime.


	24. Chapter 24

**24\. John, Lyra, and friendship bracelets. Warning: Butterflies-verse. Hints at M/M.**

"No, Daddy, it's like this."

John Tracy is an intelligent man, but there's something about weaving small strings of dyed thread that undoes his brain. He just can't get it. There's a reason Elijah does Lyra's braids in the morning.

"I see, I see," John says.

And then he does it wrong again.

"Daddy!"

"What? I'm not good at this, Ly-Ly!"

The girl – six years old and smart as heck – shakes her head, her mouth pressed into a thin line that's so reminiscent of her great-grandmother. John can't help but smile.

"Daddy, do it this way."

They're in the middle of their living area - cherry wood style floor, a red plush rug on top, with the glass coffee table set aside. Slowly, Lyra goes through the motions of weaving the three-coloured chevron.

Lilac for Daddy.

Green for _Dadai_.

Purple for Lyra.

"Do you see how it works, Daddy?"

"I get it, I get it."

Of course, John doesn't. He pushes his glasses up his nose and tries again. Immediately, he gets it wrong. Lyra shuffles over to him and puts her little hands on his.

"Try again."

Her touch is so gentle, so loving, that John gets a lump in his throat.

It's not just because she's such a good kid. It's not just because she's a joy and a wonder and smart and loving.

It's the idea that this little girl came from a horrific violation. And now? She's perfect.

"Daddy, why are you crying?"

John brushes underneath his eyes and berates himself for his emotions.

"I'm just…" He sighs. "I'm just really not good at this, Ly!"

"It's okay, Daddy," Lyra says. She sets the work aside and winds her stick-thin arms around his neck. "You don't have to be good at it. Dadai will say he likes it, even if it isn't very good."

There's the purity again and brings another lump to John's throat.

"I know he will."

They hug for a moment, the friendship bracelet set aside. Lilac, green, and purple. The best combination.


	25. Chapter 25

**25\. Scott, Alan, and the colour of rain**

Alan's taken a significant knock to the head, and Virgil's still on his way in the POD. These are the only two things Scott can think about. Never mind the torrent of rain, never mind the gouge under his own eye. It's all about baby bro and whether or not Virg is going to get there on time.

"Scott?" Alan asks. His words are little more than a murmur.

"Yeah, bud?" Scott's just glad he's kept the waver from his voice.

Alan's in the recovery postion, but Scott yearns to pull his head onto his lap and cradle the broken bones. But he can't. All he can do is watch, and lick the raindrops from his lips.

"Scott…" Alan pauses, his eyelids closing as if they're lead. "What colour is the rain?"

"Open your eyes, fella," Scott says. He gives the most gentle of prods to his younger brother's arm. "C'mon. Then I'll tell you."

With the utmost concentration, Alan manages to open his baby blues. He manages to look expectantly at Scott, who starts. Of course. The answer.

"Well," he begins. "I think rain is the colour of…everything. Anything. Whatever you want. It can be red like Three, or green like Two–and best of all, silver and blue, like you know who."

He chuckles at his own rhyme. Alan's chuckling too. The sound is music to Scott's panicked ears.

"What about you?" he asks. "What colour is the rain for you?"

Droplets course across Alan's face, and he looks away, eyes unfocused.

"It's…the colour of family," he replies.

Scott doesn't question the logic. He's just glad Alan's brain is still fighting.

"It's…all of us, together, on an autumn afternoon. The first big rain after the sunny season…" Alan goes on. "It's the colour of Dad making a huge pot of tea, and everyone sitting around the fire. It's…the colour of…happiness."

If Scott wasn't choked up enough before, he's just about to snap now.

"Well, I tell you what," he says. "When we get home, we'll do just that. Maybe not the fire, but the tea, and everyone together. How does that sound?"

"Sounds…amazin', Scott."

"Just hold on then, bud. Virgil's coming. Just hold on."


	26. Chapter 26

**26\. For the flash fic - John entering the finished Thunderbird 5 for the first time in space.**

The overriding feeling is…amazement. Never mind the nausea. It's just…perfection.

His baby. His 'Bird. He's just like his brothers and his dad, now. He's got his ship, his craft, his…domain.

John's not the pilot, the adventurer, the king of rescues. He's not the bravest, the most heroic, the best. But he is the one whose head has been beyond the clouds for as long as he can remember. He dwells in space, in calculations, in theories and logic and wonder.

Now, as he floats into Thunderbird Five for the first time, he's got his place to to this. His baby. His 'Bird.

His _home_.


	27. Chapter 27

**27\. Kayo, Gordon, and stupid bets**

"I totally can!"

"You can't, Gordon."

"I so can though."

Kayo sighs, placing her fingertips on her temples.

"I'll bet you a hundred bucks," Gordon continues, "that I can drink two litres of soda all in one."

"Gordon, no," Kayo replies. "You'll hurt yourself, and it's stupid."

"Stupid and _amazing_ , though."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, alright!" Kayo cries, throwing her hands into the air. "If you're that willing to throw your money away, then do it."

An hour later, Kayo finds herself outside the bathroom door, listening to unspeakable things happening inside.

"I told you it was stupid."

Gordon, this time, does not reply.


	28. Chapter 28

**28\. Flash fiction prompt: It is the wrong side of midnight and John is having a booze fuelled conversation with EOS.**

"I do not agree," EOS says for the thousandth time.

Unfortunately, John's had half a bottle of some exquisite bourbon, and he's never going to relent.

"No, really, EOS. S'a good idea. I promish, it'll work."

"I do not agree."

John's not entirely sure what he's put forward, but he's in too deep to renege now. It was one of his ideas, therefore it was a good idea. Right?"

"John Tracy, you are drunk."

EOS's petulant voice comes through loud and clear. She's a hologram right now, her LEDS all blue–but John knows they're really red. Red for 'I-am-so-upset-with-you-right-now.' But EOS doesn't really understand. Yes, he's drunk. But he's also drunk because he nearly died.

"I do agree," John parodies. The booze makes him bold. "One hun'red per cent, drunkaroo. Tha's me."

"I am calling one of your brothers."

"Do what you want!" John cries, throwing himself back onto the couch. "I don' care. S'all good. Everything's all good right now."

It's not, though. Nothing is okay. But the burn of bourbon takes the taint of fear away. He doesn't want to experience the fear, because he's certain his brothers don't–at least not to the same degree he does. They nearly die all the time. They're used to it, especially Gordon, thanks to Fischler.

John's not, though. And it makes him feel weak. And it's made him reach for the booze.

"T' get back to my point," he says, "it'll be a real good idea. Oh yeah, a real good idea."

"What would?" EOS asks, LEDs still red.

John pauses. He blinks. The bottle slides from his hands.

"I…"

He gulps.

"I dunno."

His breath catches.

"I…I don't know anything, anymore."


	29. Chapter 29

**29\. (For the flash fic thing) Scott/Virgil and comfort**

It's been a long day. One of the longest. They nearly lost Alan, and they nearly lost John. But it's over now. All that remains is the debrief.

It's not a formal thing. It never is. But for Scott and Virgil, it's the only way to find some comfort in situations such as these. They're the dream team, the ones who are supposed to look after the others. The pilots of One and Two, the big hitters.

They find themselves on the balcony after days like these. They sit and stare upwards, watching the play of clouds across the stars, blinking against the villa lights on the periphery.

Arms slung across one another's shoulders, they say nothing. They don't need to. There's nothing except the two of them, and the sea breeze, and the sky and the stars.

There are no words. They don't need them.

They sit in one another's presence, imbibing the comfort.

They're the dream team, the ones who are supposed to look after the others. But a big part of that is looking after each other.


	30. Chapter 30

**30\. For the flash fiction - John, Matt, and coffee. Warning: Butterflies-verse.**

It's no secret that John likes coffee. Sometimes it seems like if you cut him open, there'd be a cafetiere on the inside.

It's also no secret that John's having a bad day, and Eli's not around. He's out on a rescue, but Matt figures there's some rescuing to be done at home.

So he's in his apartment, waiting for the kettle to boil. The French press is all prepped, freshly ground coffee beans lining it, about an inch deep. John likes his coffee strong.

There's the blessed click, and after waiting for the bubbling to still, Matt pours the water. Off-the-boil, John taught him. Always wait for off-the-boil.

As the grounds and water dance, Matt turns to the cupboards and starts his hunt. He's a protein shake and salad kind of guy, but there has to be some kind of treat lurking in the back of some shelf or other. Elijah's in the apartment too often for there not to be a supply of chocolate somewhere.

"Ah ha!"

There's a crinkle as Matt's stout fingers grab the packet of biscuits. He plucks up a small tray–mostly for decoration but today for a purpose–and plonks the biscuits, the French press, two mugs, and a carton of milk on it. He's definitely not the sort who would own a milk jug, but he's pretty sure John won't mind.

Then it's just the short journey to the next apartment over, and the wait after the knock.

John looks like crap-all when he opens the door. Dark sunken circles under his eyes, lines of stress that make him seem two decades older than he is. It takes a minute for him to realise who he's looking at, and what on Earth is going on.

When he does, he blinks.

Matt cocks his head to the side.

"Coffee?" he asks.

There's a pause. Then:

"A-alright."

Matt's in, admitted, and he's on a mission.

Not an hour later, and John's laughing. Matthew is grinning, and his heart is a little lighter. Thank the gods.

Rescue status: complete.


	31. Chapter 31

**31\. Gordon, Alan, and losing comms**

"Virgil? Are you there? Thunderbird Two, respond!"

Nothing.

Brown eyes meet blue. The youngest of the five now alone, their big brother cut off, the signal somewhere in the wilds of the unknown.

A little like them. Alan clenches his jaw tight against the bitter cold, even though he's in his space-rated suit, with his helmet firmly on. He doesn't get cold in the dark maw of space. But he's cold now—and it has nothing to do with the blizzard.

Gordon's face goes through ten expressions in a second. He starts with blind panic, but ends with molten determination. You see, the two youngest—the tinies, the small ones, the terrible twosome—have never been cut off before. Virgil's baritone has always been there, or Scott's hummingbird call. And John, a million billion miles away, yet always a chirp in their ears.

But not now. They're in the middle of the mother of all snowstorms, with two trapped climbers to get to, and no Big Brother Patrol on standby. Snow catches in the recess between their helmets and their visors, building like mini mountain ranges, sloughing away like tiny avalanches.

"Thunderbird Two and Thunderbird Five, respond!"

A last-ditch attempt, but to no avail. The only sound is that of the wind outside, and hammering hearts inside.

Gordon licks his lips, passing his tongue over the fleshy pink. He holds his breath, then releases it, slow, slow, slow.

Brown finds blue.

"We got this," he says.

He squeezes Alan's suit as hard as he can, willing the sensation through the stark hardness of Alan's suit.

Alan nods, swallows, and blinks. His blue eyes grow steely.

"Yeah. We got this."


	32. Chapter 32

**32\. Adrenaline**

He'd been called a lot of things in his life—not all of them complimentary. The best one, in Scott's own opinion, was a simple phrase: adrenaline junkie.

Nothing suited him better. From he could walk, he was running. From he could climb, he was jumping. No couch arm or shelf or top bunkbed was safe from Scott Tracy, miniature daredevil.

Older, he was no different. It just happened that he had more interesting things to jump from, like high speed aircraft and skyscrapers.

The reasons for the jumping sometimes changed. Usually, it was duty. Save the person. Defuse the bomb. Get the hell away from danger once the rescue was over.

But there were less savoury reasons at times. Too many thoughts. Too many memories. Too big a hole in his heart.

Thankfully, there was always someone there to catch him in the times when his mind flew away. Strong hands with grease stains or paint splotches, a steady voice in his ear.

"Come back to me."

And he did. He always did.

The sensation would pass, and the next jump was for the better. A jump back to reality, to safety.

And the next jump? For safety, for duty, for the Tracy name.

Adrenaline junkie. Perfection.


	33. Chapter 33

**33\. Thunderbird Two + shaving cream**

"Don't. Do. It."

Gordon paused, can in one hand, the other resting on the high lip of Thunderbird Two's pilot's chair.

 _Busted!_

"Oh, hey, Virg," he said, as nonchalant as if nothing untoward was happening.

Untoward was the nicest of ways of saying he was about to spray shaving cream all over the seat, just before the weekly test of Virgil's launch procedure.

Gordon turned, swiftly moving the can behind his back. He gave his older brother a toothy grin as his fingers sweated on the offending object.

Arms folded and as stern as any human had the right to be, Virgil shook his head.

"I knew you were going to try something," he said. "There's something in the air. Things have been too…normal around here. Rescue. Rest. Rescue. Rest. There's been no mayhem."

"Ah, c'mon," Gordon said. "I wasn't going to do anything."

"Oh, really?" Virgil shook his head. "You can't get anything past me. What's behind your back?"

Every word made his palms sweat more, and Gordon gulped. The inevitability of the situation stretched out long in front of him. Yet he would not relent.

"I was just…checking your seat for tacks," he said. "Yeah. That's it. I knew you were having the test today and I just thought I'd be a nice little bro and make sure things would be a-okay. I heard Alan saying something about a prank and…"

Virgil didn't need to say anything. He simply raised an eyebrow, and Gordon's throat tightened.

"Alright!" he said, throwing his hands up.

That was a poor decision. Moist, his left hand had no grip. Instead of staying in the guilty appendage, it flew upwards and outwards, arcing across the cockpit.

Right into Virgil's forehead.

"Gah!"

Shaving cream spread all around and Gordon squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth.

"Gordon Tracy! You are _dead_!"

Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Gordon swallowed, not daring to open his eyes.

"Ah, _fudge_."


End file.
